


This Is Much Better

by Catchclaw



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Banter, Dirty Talk, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 08:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8660584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Snart’s hands. They’re the bane of Mick Rory’s existence.





	

Snart’s hands. They’re the bane of Mick Rory’s existence.

Broken knuckles and busted fingernails. Dry skin, always cool to the touch. Valuable tools, is the point--tools that Snart has a bad habit of treating like shit between jobs, of casually tossing into windows or brick walls or the teeth of a bar weasel who doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut, like that jackass last night in Coast City, and damn if Mick’s not the one who’s gotta clean up the mess.

“That hurts,” Leonard snaps, glaring at him over the flashlight.

“Good. That means the nerves aren’t messed up. Hold the fuck still.”

He sets Len’s busted index finger against the splint and starts winding the gauze, more careful than he would be if it was him who was broken. They need Lenny’s hands, damn it, for that safe in the Anderson building next month. Len’s the only one who can coax it open, tricky with the dial or blasting in with the cold gun. Whatever. Mick can’t do that crap. He doesn’t want to. That’s Lenny’s department. That’s what Snart’s hands are for: opening things that are supposed to be closed. So they’ve gotta be right.

He pushes Len’s knuckle down, he has to, to make sure Len’s finger stays straight, make sure it hugs the splint and doesn’t heal at some weird-ass angle.

“Fuck,” Len says, tight, through his teeth. He’s got his head turned away, his eyes closed. “Fuck me, that fucking hurts, Mick.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mick says. “I’m almost done.”

The warehouse is dark around them, everywhere but their little circle of life, of light, huddled over a workbench that stinks of oil and fire. Lenny’s shuddering. Mick can hear his teeth clenching. Len hates being hurt--hell, who doesn’t?--but he hates being tended to worse. Way worse. Well. Tough shit.

Mick grabs the electrical tape. “You know, if you hadn’t tried to fucking fix this with a band-aid and pretended everything was hunky dory, we could have set this before it started to heal crooked. Woulda hurt a lot less, guaranteed.”

Lenny snorts, his face still turned away, still cut up in shadow. “Well, it was a Snoopy band-aid. Those have extra healing powers. Don’t you know that?”

One sticky sweep around Lenny’s finger, then two. “Really?”

“That’s”--Len gasps, tries to swallow it--"that’s what Mrs. Morrison told me in first grade. The healing powers of Snoopy and Woodstock. Legendary. Surely you’re not suggesting she was telling me tales.”

Mick wraps the last wind at the tip and shifts Len’s hand towards the light. “There you go,” he says. “Mummified. Nice and tight. You keep the splint on, should heal in a couple weeks. More or less.”

“Huh.”

“You can look now, is what I mean. It ain’t so gory.”

“Still hurts like a bitch,” Len says, but he looks.

“Yeah, well. There’s some shit vodka here somewhere. Best painkiller I can offer.”

“I hate vodka.”

“Boo hoo. Your turn to buy booze next time.”

Lenny grins at him. It’s the best he’s looked all day. “You stole that. That’s the sad thing. Any liquor you could want at your fingertips, and you stole the world’s fucking worst vodka.”

“Not everybody’s a top shelf guy. And the bottle fit in my pocket.”

Len’s mouth twitches, the way it does when he’s trying his damndest not to laugh. “You need better pockets.“

“Bigger ones?”

“Maybe both.”

“Ok. So our next job’s at Men’s Warehouse, that it?”

Len does laugh then, a short bark that rings off the walls and echoes pretty in Mick’s ears. “This is why I do the planning. And why are you still holding my hand?”

Oh. Mick looks down. Len’s wrist is lit on his palm like a bird, Mick’s fingers turned around it, a gentle cage. “Uh,” Mick says. “To keep it steady, I guess. Make sure you didn’t fuck up my nursing. I used up all of the tape.”

Len’s staring at him, studying, like he’s a safe with a weird combination. “I see.”

There’s a long, long moment where Mick’s not sure what he should do. So he sits still. He can be patient when he needs to, let the answers come to him, rather than chase ‘em. Unlike some people.

He doesn’t let go, though. And Lenny, he don’t pull away.

“Well,” Len says finally, “you’re a crap nurse. But then again, I’m a crap patient. Between the two of us, then, maybe we won’t fuck it up.”  

He reaches out with his unbusted hand and touches Mick’s face. Cups his cheek, turns his thumb under Mick’s jaw.

Something in Mick’s head stutters. He can feel Len’s blood, hopping hot under all that cold skin. And Lenny’s looking at him again, piercing, dead on, and it feels--

It feels really fucking good, actually.

The tumblers knock over inside of Mick’s head. A door opens there, somewhere. One that’s been padlocked a long fucking time.

“So,” he says, packing 20 years into one word.

“So,” Lenny says. “Mick. Why don’t you come over here?”

Mick stands up, slides around the edge of the table. Keeps a hold of Len’s wrist.

“Now,” Lenny says, stretching, finding Mick’s neck with his nails. “This. This is much better.”

He pulls and Mick bends and then Len’s kissing him, hot and fast, like he really, really needs to, like he has to, and that’s what gets Mick’s engine running, the taste of that need, the way it mixes with peppermint and icicles inside of Len’s mouth.

“Oh,” Len says, dirty, in the space between kisses, “yes. Please.”

“Hey,” Mick says, when he has to catch his damn breath.

Lenny’s eyes are half-closed, his mouth still half open. “What?”

Mick wants to say something. He feels like he should, because this is important. This is different. But then Len smiles, this little cocky thing, and says:

“I always knew you’d be a good kisser.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Because,” Len says, flicking the word over Mick’s chin, “you pay attention. A lot of attention. To me.”

“I have to. You’re fucking bossy. Not like you give me a choice.”

“No, that’s not what I mean. Anybody can do what they’re told, Mick. If they want to. If they have the proper incentive, motivation. The difference is you _listen_ to me. You don’t follow blindly. You pay attention and you respond accordingly. And that, my friend, is what makes a good kiss. Being simpatico. A sense of mutual give and take. Taking pleasure in--”

Mick shuts him up, licks the bon mots right out of his smart fucking mouth.

They end up against the far wall near the window, Leonard’s back against concrete, his pants open, his grin a mile wide.

“You know,” Mick says, slowing his roll, shifting his wrist into second, “can’t help but notice that I’m doing all the work here. All the heavy lifting.”

Len’s hips tilt up. “And you’re doing an excellent job, as I believe I’ve made clear.”

Mick squeezes, just a little too hard, and Len’s cock jumps in his hand. “Yeah. I got that.”

“Great,” Len gets out. “Glad we agree. So don’t stop.”

Even in the shit light from the street, Mick can see the flush on his cheeks, the bright wicked stars in his eyes. “I just hope I can expect the same from you. The same dedication to detail and all, when it’s your turn.”

“Mmmmm,” Len says, lifting his hips again. “Uh huh.”

Mick grins, tucks it into Len’s cheek. “Oh, I see. You just wanna come. Is that it?”

“Yes,” Len says, catching Mick’s shirt in his fist. “Goddamn you. Don’t--” His voice peels off as Mick starts up again, works him hard, works him fast.

“Don’t what?” Mick says.”Don’t make you ask for it?”

Lenny kisses him, ragged, staccato shots that ricochet off Mick's teeth. He nips at Len’s tongue and Len groans, bites him right back.

“Fuck,” Lenny breathes. “Mick. Fuck.” He reaches down, rubs his good hand over Mick’s cock. “Take this out. Take it out. Let me touch you.”

Mick bats him away. “No. I want you to come.”

Lenny shudders. “Oh.”

“You’re gonna come,” Mick says, “all over my hand. Yeah, you are. Then I’ll take it out right in front of you and not let you touch it, not at all.”

“Mick--”

“I’ll put my hands on myself, Len, stroke it right here, where you can see. Not let you touch. Make myself come all over you.”

The noise that comes out of Lenny’s mouth is fucking filthy. The look on his face, even more so. “Shit,” he says, “shit, I’m gonna--”

He gives it up loud, hot and messy over Mick’s fingers. Makes a big show of lapping his spunk off Mick’s hand, which is fucking unfair and the only reason that Mick comes so goddamn fast, a sweet sucker punch that makes his knees buckle.

“I like this,” Len says in Mick’s ear. “I like this a lot.”

Mick’s trying to remember how his lungs work. “Mmmm,” he manages. “How’s your hand?”

Len lifts it up, waves it in Mick’s face. “Better. See?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Seems you’re a finer cure than even a Snoopy band-aid.”

“You call me Woodstock, I’m punching you in the face.” He snags Len’s wrist, squints down at his handiwork. Tape’s still there. And the splint. “You, you're punching nobody for a while. We clear?”

Len rolls his eyes. “Fine. But if someone needs punching, what would you suggest that I do? Call you?”

Mick snorts. It almost covers his shiver when he lays his lips over the back of Len’s hand. Almost. “Yeah, that.”

“Hmmm,” Len says. “Let me think about it.”

Mick looks at him, at Len, at the sweat peeling down his cheeks. At his fucking delighted grin. He feels like he should say something. Because this is different. This is important. But what he says is:

“We should go. Sun’ll be up soon.”

Len shifts, takes his hand away, and then his fingers are tracing the back of Mick’s head, all of them, busted and good. God, Lenny has beautiful hands. Valuable, sure, but beautiful, too. Mick tips into them. Closes his eyes.

“Yeah,” Len says, hot over Mick’s mouth. “We probably should.”


End file.
